


These Words Are All We Have

by pancakezrule



Category: Divergent Series - Veronica Roth, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, One Direction (Band), Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Author Louis, Book Love, Depressed Louis, Disturbed Louis, Fate, Gay, Harry reads Louis' book, Kinda, Liam Payne & Harry Styles Friendship, Louis is an author, M/M, Mystery, Niall Horan & Harry Styles Friendship, Niall Horan & Liam Payne Friendship, No band, One Shot, Recess - Freeform, Romance, Sick Harry, Suicidal Thoughts, The Author Regrets Nothing, Triggers, attempted suicide, friends - Freeform, larry stylinson - Freeform, mean people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:01:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancakezrule/pseuds/pancakezrule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is where it ends. There are no more stories for me.</p><p>When these pages stop, my story stops. I stop. I hope you understand why I wrote this, and why I hope you've gotten this far in my story.</p><p>And that's why I love you, reader.<br/>I'll always love you. </p><p>I hope you've come to love me, too."<br/>--<br/>Or, the one where Louis writes a story about his life and Harry finds it. Harry also falls in love with the main character of the story, as does the main character with Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Words Are All We Have

You know that feeling you get when you read a good book? That rush of inspiration to do something, to make something that can touch someone else the way that story touched you?

Well, I know about that feeling. I know about that feeling, and I start to act on it. But the truth? Nothing I seem to create can touch others the way that things seem to touch me. 

I guess I'm like a pencil without the led. I can work, and work, and work, but when it really comes down to it nothing I create leaves a mark. 

When a story speaks to me, I carry it around. I keep said story with me, and I might carry the book around for a couple of days after finishing before finally deciding to return it to the library. But once the book gets placed back on the shelf, I don't forget about it. I keep it with me. 

Sometimes at night, I lay in my bed and I think. I think about all the books I've ever read, and I try to find a connection between them. And the funny part is that I can actually connect each story to the next, like a constellation or something.

The characters seem to seep into my conscious then, when I'm almost asleep but not quite. I imagine having conversations with my favorite characters. Like they're actually in my bedroom, sitting at the foot of my bed and talking to me as I fall asleep.

I admit I'm pretty weird. I don't know if anyone else does this, but it recently dawned on me that I live in a completely different world sometimes.

One moment I'm sitting in class, paying attention to whatever my history teacher decides to lecture about and jotting down notes as she goes, and the next Percy Jackson is sitting beside me and making bored faces at me while Mrs. Vessel rambles on an on about Congressional Reconstruction. 

I don't tell anyone about the characters, just like I don't let anyone read my stories anymore. Guess getting rejected as many times as I have has made a dent in my confidence. 

I've thrown away more story ideas than you can imagine. Every epilogue has been burned, every first couple of chapters shredded. I can't seem to keep anything for more than a week. The papers sit on my desk, flaunting themselves at me.

 _Look,_ they say. _Look at us. We're never going to get published. What's the point of keeping us anyway?_  
What _is_ the point, anyway? If you can find one, please tell me. 

You're probably wondering who I am by this point. I'm not sure if I want you to know yet, so I'll just go by my middle name. I don't know if the things I'm going to write down will reflect badly on myself at this point, so please just call me William. 

A normal name for a normal kid. I'm nothing special, let's just get that out there. This story isn't going to be about werewolves or vampires, or a tragic love triangle set in some alternate universe. 

I'm just William. And this is my story. Or, much rather, the only piece of writing of mine that I will allow anyone to read from this point on.  
xxx  
Harry finds the leather book at the primary school his mother works at. One of the little kids tripped over it at recess, and Harry's mom didn't bother to read it. 

The book was dirty and it smelled like mold. His mother was just going to throw it away. Harry was home sick today, but instead of actually staying at home, his mom took him to work with her. 

Now he sits on the playground wrapped in one of those flannel blankets with sleeves and a bottle of water. The book sits in his lap, open and staring back up at him. 

It was inside a shoebox and safely tucked inside a plastic ziplock bag. The pages are still a little warped from moisture. There's no telling how long it's been buried under the playground. 

He should just throw it away, but Harry is curious. Why would anyone hide their writing at a primary school? And under a playground, for goodness sake. 

He sighs, nose sniffling as he takes a deep breath. Harry turns the page and continues reading about this strange boy who calls himself William.  
xxx  
I wish I knew where to start. I guess this page can be titled chapter one? I don't know. I don't think my story really has any defined chapters. I'm not good with chapters, anyway.

All the chapters I write get destroyed. Maybe this will have an ending if I don't put chapters on it. That sounds like a good idea, doesn't it? 

One time at the university I go to, my English teacher made us write another chapter for one of the novels we read in class. It was a pretty good idea, actually. Except I can't write chapters.

I told him that I can't write chapters, and he laughed at me. "Of course you can, William. A chapter is just like anything else you write." 

But it's not. A chapter is different. A chapter binds everything together, and each chapter holds it's own special story. 

Chapters are like crayons, and each individual crayon makes up the whole 24 package, just like each individual chapter makes up the whole story. 

I guess I can tell you my story as a whole. That's a good idea. I'll just turn off the lamp and write in the dark. I tend to remember when it's dark. The moon is full tonight, anyway. I'll still be able to see.

I'm sorry if the story doesn't make any sense. I don't make any sense, so it's only fitting if my story does the same.  
xxx  
"Harry?" The boy looks up from the pages, staring at his mother. She finally spots the boy on the jungle gym and smiles. "What are you doing up there?"

"Reading." Harry replies, flashing her a small smile. Harry's mother nods and goes back inside the school. 

She turns around at the door, giving Harry a quizzical look. "Okay dear. But come inside if you get cold. We wouldn't want you to become any sicker than you already are, would we?"

"No, we wouldn't. And okay mum, I'll head inside when I start to get cold."  
xxx  
On a Saturday morning in November I found myself home alone for the weekend. Naturally, I decided to break a few rules.

First, I wore my fathers old worn-out sweatshirt. It's too big for me, and it feels like I'm being swallowed by some faded blue monster. But I love the way my hands don't reach the end of the sleeves, and how soft it is on the inside.

I also love the way wearing it makes me feel like he's still here, and like we're still a normal family. It's nice to pretend sometimes. 

My mother banned the sweatshirt from ever being brought out of the closet. She shoved it and a whole bunch of photos in a box and stuffed it in the farthest crevice in the hallway closet she could fit it in. 

I guess it hurts her to remember. It used to hurt me, too. But now I wear it for the purpose of remembering. And because I like the way it feels.

I grabbed a bowl from the glass cabinet in my mothers room, one of the pieces of my parents wedding china, and filled it to the brim with Fruity Jewels and milk. I balanced the bowl between my hands and walked slowly as to make sure not to spill any of my breakfast on the floor.

I sat down on the carpet and pressed the circular button on the television. It's an older one, and it turns on by spreading out from the center of the screen. The sound system tends to amplify the music and sound effects over the people talking, so the only movies we watch on it are animated. For some reason the animated voices come through at the same volume as the music. 

It's weird. My mother says she doesn't notice. My sisters have never said anything about it. Maybe I'm the only one who notices. 

I ate my cereal in silence, staring at the television screen as Sponge-Bob Squarepants flips krabby patties for a couple of days straight and goes crazy. Then he has to go see Plankton pretending to be a therapist to fix his problem. Then at the end of the episode, Plankton doesn't get the recipe and Sponge-Bob gets better and goes back to work.

It's kind of funny how all these episode have a happy ending. Or, they just end. But none of the endings are ever sad, and they don't leave you waiting until the next episode to see what happens. Each episode is different, yet the same.

Kind of like chapters in a book. Here we go with the chapter thing again. 

I drank the pink milk in my bowl, turning down the volume on the T.V. In reality, I'm still sitting on the carpet, staring at the screen. In my head, I'm somewhere else.

I'm still on the floor, but Tobias from Divergent is sitting on the couch next to me. 

He snorted, gaze flickering from the television to me. "You do that a lot, you know. Just randomly turn off the sound on the T.V. Maybe I still wanted to watch it. Ever thought of that, William?" 

I shrugged, setting my bowl down on the carpet. "Yeah, I guess so. But I want to talk to you, Tobias." 

He hummed, standing up from his spot on the couch. Tobias sat down on the floor in front of me, cross-legged with his elbows on his knees. His chin rested on his knuckles as he stared at me expectantly. 

"Do you like me, Tobias?" 

He laughed and nodded, rolling his eyes. "What made you think otherwise, William?" 

"I don't know." I muttered, turning the sound back on. Tobias embedded himself back in the show, and I took a step back into reality. 

I stood with my bowl in my hand, carrying it back to the kitchen and setting it in the sink. Usually my mother would yell at me if I left my dishes in the sink. But I was home alone, so I could do whatever I wanted to- like stay in my pajamas all day and sit on the couch until dinner. 

I stared out the window above the sink, looking out at my backyard. The old swing-set is falling apart, and it seemed as if a single strong gust of wind would topple the whole thing over. I hadn't swung on it in years.

I doubted anyone had, actually. The neighbors probably didn't like starting at it, but I don't care about the neighbors. I don't really care about anyone, actually.  
xxx  
Harry heads inside when the kids come out for recess. He takes bites out of his plain peanut-butter sandwich and swallows them silently. His mother grades papers and puts them in alphabetic order, constantly looking up at her son.

Harry finishes his sandwich as the bell rings, signaling the end of recess and the start of lunch time. He stands and throws away the plastic wrapper his sandwich was in, shrugging back into the blanket. 

His mother sets down her red pen and pushes herself up, grabbing her own lunch. "You sure you're not getting cold out there?" 

"I'm sure mum." Harry nods, clutching the book to his chest inside the blanket.  
xxx  
Believe it or not, I'm not the most popular kid at the university. Actually, I'm that one kid that people don't like. They don't invite me to parties, and they don't talk to me between classes. 

I'm glad my house is right next to campus, so I don't have to deal with a roommate who only bothers to speak to me in the mornings when he can't find his socks and is running late for geometry. 

I used to have friends, but then I drank Pine-Sol at a party. People didn't like me after that. My mother wanted to get me emitted to a psych ward. 

I don't know how many times I told everyone I was fine, and that I didn't need any professional help. But my mother used more college money to pay for a therapist. 

"Hello William." Miss Everworth smiled at me, clicking her pen and flipping open her charts and notepad. 

I hated therapy, and I still do. But I go there every Tuesday after school and talk with Miss Everworth for an hour. I plan to humor her and play along so she'll let me go sooner than three months. Maybe if I do good, she'll let me off with three weeks. 

"Hello." I replied, picking at the skin around my fingernail. Miss Everworth jotted something down, and I immediately stopped peeling the skin back. 

"So, William." She started, popping a red cough drop into her mouth. "Why did you feel the need to kill yourself?"

"I didn't. I just wanted it to stop."

"What to stop?" She asked, leaning foreword like she's watching a football game and the goalie is about to block a tie-breaking shot. 

"I don't know. Everything, I guess. Growing up." 

"I see. Do you still want to die?" She continued, writing down something in her notes.

"I didn't want to die in the first place, Miss Everworth." I reminded her, folding my hands in my lap.

"Of course not. Do you want to hurt yourself or others?"

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "No, Miss Everworth."

She glanced up at me and frowned slightly at my sigh. "Are you sad, William?"

I opened my mouth to respond, then closed it. Was I sad? "Yes." I said after a moment, quietly and slightly confused. "I am sad."

"Why's that?" Miss Everworth asked, suddenly interested. This was the first sign of progress she'd gotten out of me since the first time I entered her office. 

"I'm not sure. I'm just sad. I don't remember when it started, or why it started. One day I must have just woken up sad." I paused. "That's not bad, right? People get sad sometimes."

Miss Everworth smiled at me and nodded. "Yes. People get sad sometimes. But the first step to recovery is recognition and admitting you have a problem."

I think that's a stupid saying. Why do you have to admit you have a problem? You know you have a problem already. Why does admitting it change anything? 

And since when was being sad a problem? I don't think it's a problem. On the first day if therapy, Miss Everworth told me that everyone gets sad sometimes, and that it's natural. 

So why would I have to admit a problem that is natural and that everyone else has too?

It's not like I'm the only one with a problem in our relationship. Miss Everworth has a serious cough drop problem. I don't think she even has a cough, but she's always popping cough drops into her mouth. 

One day I asked her about it. "The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, Miss Everworth." 

She glared at me and spit the red oblong shape out, wrapping it in a tissue and tossing it into the trash can. "Is that better, William?"

"Yes. I'm glad you're making such good progress, Miss Everworth."  
xxx  
Harry sighs, wiping his nose on his sleeve. His mother would kill him if she found out about it, but he can keep a small secret from her. 

It's not like a snotty sleeve is anything major.  
xxx  
I'm a little upset at the quality of the paper in this notebook. I picked it out because the cover was all leathery and cool. But the pages keep ripping when I write on them.

Maybe it's a sign to write with less force. But I can't help but press down hard when I write. It's my story, I should be able to write with as much force as I want to.

Who's going to stop me, anyway? You, reader? Are you going to stop me?

That's what I thought.  
xxx  
"Harry, I don't think it's healthy to sit on the swings for thirty minutes without actually swinging." 

He looks up at his friend and smirks, the blonde lad taking a seat on one of the animals that rock back and forth on a spring. "Shut up Niall. Why aren't you at school?" 

"It's the last day before winter break, idiot. It was a half-day." Niall laughs, rocking back and forth with his feet in the little yellow rings, therefore off the mulch. He rocks wildly, staring at Harry with a straight face as he raises a hand above his head.

"YEE HAW!" He yells, breaking out into a grin and waving his hand above his hand like a cowboy twirling a lasso. 

Harry laughs, the action ending in a cough. "How long have you been watching me?" He asks when he can catch his breath, blinking the sudden tears from his eyes. 

When he gets sick, his coughing fits cause Harry to tear up. His mother says it's because of his sinuses and the coughing puts pressure on them or whatever. Harry says it's because his body really hates being sick. 

"For the past thirty minutes. Duh." Niall says, standing and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "Anyway, Liam and I are going to the mall. Care to join us?"

Harry shakes his head and returns to his book, listening as Niall leaves the playground.  
xxx  
If feels horrible. Like I'm being consumed by the darkness. It's everywhere, pressing on me. It hurts so bad. I want it to stop. I want it all to stop.

I'm not crazy. I don't need a therapist. Why does everyone think I need a goddamn therapist? I don't. I'm fine. I'm fine. 

How many times must I remind everyone that I'm an adult now? That what stupid little twats at the university think of me doesn't mean anything. They don't matter to me. 

This matters to me. You matter to me, reader. You mean the world to me, because I'd like to believe that you care about me, about this. 

I remember sitting at primary school one day on the swings. My feet didn't touch the mulch, but that's okay. Your swing gets higher when your feet don't drag in the dirt. 

That sounds like some kind of philosophical quote or something. Look at me, being all smart. Hah. I bet my grandmother would love to hear me say that. 

I bet she'd be upset at me, if she saw me now. Sitting here in my bedroom, pouring out all my thoughts on these pages. But I bet she'd understand. She always did. 

I miss her. But then again, I miss a lot of people these days. 

What was I saying? Oh, yes, the swings. I was kicking my legs and wondering how high I could get. I used to pretend like I was flying when I would swing, that if I let go then I'd soar through the sky like a bird. 

I could escape the two-sided kids in my class who loved me one moment and shunned me the next. I could escape my mom and dad yelling at each other. I could escape my little sister crying at night because father scared her when he yelled at our mom. 

You know, when I think about it my life kinda sucks. Oh well. I'm not the worst off in the world. At least I have a house and a mother who loves me, and I have a meal every night and clean clothes to wear.

Who would want to get rid of that?

Oh, right. Apparently me. I did drink Pine-Sol, after all.  
xxx  
"You matter to me, William."  
xxx  
I like to call the time before I drank the Pine-Sol and when I still had friends, the Before time. Pretty obvious, right?

One day Before, I was sitting in the grass at the university underneath this oak tree in the middle of campus. I was reading Of Mice and Men again, and I was upset by the pages in the book.

I hate people who bend the corners of books. I think that's when the pages are called dog-eared. I've read stories about people reading dog-eared books before. 

Well, I hate it.

It's like they have no respect for the pages or the people who will read the book after them. They just crinkle the pages and leave their mark on the story. 

It really irritates me. 

I bent the corner of this page to show you what I meant. I hope it doesn't bother you to the point that you stop reading. 

Anyway, I was sitting under the tree when this girl walked up to me.

"Hello." She smiled, sitting down. I tore my eyes from the pages, focusing my gaze on her. 

She had blonde hair in a braid down her back and a sparkly headband on. Her skirt was the same dark blue material all the girls tended to wear, and her button-down top had sparkly buttons to match her headband. 

She was pretty cute, if you're into the whole stereotypical school-girl thing. 

"Hi." I returned the smile, bookmarking the page with my finger and closing the book. "I'm William."

"Addie." She replied. Keep in mind that I'm changing her name to keep her identity a secret. I will most likely do that with everyone. Except Miss Everworth, since she's supportive about me writing about her.

We've spoken about it before. It's all alright. 

"I've seen you around school. Aren't we in the same chemistry class?" She continued, glancing down at the book in my hand. "Of Mice and Men? Is that for English or something? God, I hate assigned reading. But look at you, being all good and actually doing the work. I'm proud of you."

I nodded, looking down at the book in his lap. "Uh. Yeah, I sit behind you in chemistry." I paused, frowning. Might as well go along with it, since I had no friends and Addie seemed like a potential one. "Yeah, assigned reading sucks."

Addie laughed, throwing her head back. "You're completely terrified of me, aren't you?" 

I nodded, causing her to smile. "Don't be. I promise I don't bite... Hard." 

We became fast friends. Addie introduced me to Michael and Nathan, her other friends. I didn't sit by myself under that tree for the rest of the time Before.

I don't sit under that tree anymore. In my free time, I'm studying. I want to get out of that hell as soon as I can.  
xxx  
Harry knows exactly how William must feel. All of his friends separated themselves from him in ninth grade. They all played football, and he was in a band.

Only Niall stayed. And then he met Liam. Now they're sort of the three musketeers.

But when he sees his old friends in the hallway, they don't bother to wave. They just stare at Harry as they pass.

And it hurts. It fucking hurts.  
xxx  
I feel like I can tell you anything, and I haven't even met you yet. You may be some creepy forty-year-old man cop reading my book to figure out who I am.

But I still feel like I can tell you anything, and you wouldn't judge me. I like that. I like to pretend, and I do it a lot, if you haven't noticed.

Addie called me a basket-case after the Incident, which, by the way, is what I'm going to call the whole Pine-Sol thing from now on. I guess that's a correct definition of me. I don't really know at this point. 

Right now I'm sitting in my room with Peeta from The Hunger Games. He's trying to sleep, laying on his side and staring at me from my bed.

"C'mere." He says sleepily. "You're distracting me, and I want to go to bed."

"You're already in bed." I tell him, putting down my pen and rubbing my eyes with the palm of my hand. 

"Yeah, well.. I want to go to sleep." He mumbles with a frown, his eyebrows knitting together as he stares at me.

I sigh and pull my knees to my chest, flattening the book between my shirt and my legs. "And why can't you do that with me over here?"

"Because!" Peta whines, screwing his eyes shut. "You're distracting me with your pen clicking and the pages are turning and waking me up when I'm almost asleep. Besides, I like sleeping against your back. You're like a pacifier or something. I don't have nightmares when you're in the bed with me."

I hum and straighten my legs back out, resting my head against the wall. "I'll be there in a minute, Peeta. Let me finish writing this, and I'll come to bed with you. Then we can sleep, okay?"

"Okay." He mumbles, pulling the blankets over his head. "William?" 

"Hm?"

"Hermione ate the rest of the Fruity Jewels and put the empty box back in the pantry." He mumbles, yawning. 

"That bitch." I gasp, feigning betrayal. "And to think I told her she was the best Monopoly player."

"Hey." Peeta frowns, sitting up. "I thought _I_ was the best Monopoly player?"

I shake my head, motioning for him to lay back down. "No, it's Hermione. You're the best Go Fish player, Peeta."

"Oh." Peeta nods, curling back up on his side. "Thank you, William."

"Mmhm." I hum, picking up my pen and continuing to write on the creamy pages of the book.  
xxx  
After math class and when the students are drawing their best impression of summer, Harry's mother comes back outside.

"Harold." She snaps, causing Harry to slam the book shut and ultimately lose his page. "It's freezing out here!"

"I'm not cold." Harry lies. Of course he's cold, but he's not thinking about being cold. He's thinking about William.  
xxx  
I think I'll tell you who I am if you bother to read this story until the end. Is it crazy to say that I love you, reader?

Is it crazy for a character in a book, for an author behind the pages to fall in love with a person they've never met before, and they probably never will meet? 

I hope not. 

I'd rather you not think of me as crazy. I hope my confession of love doesn't scare you away.  
xxx  
There's a man watching Harry. He stands on the other side of the fence that wraps around the playground, staring at Harry. 

That's when he decides to climb inside the swirly slide to hide from the man.

Can you spell pedophile?  
xxx  
The Monday I went back to school after the Incident brought a new semester, and the temperature kept dancing between the line of freezing. The defroster had to run in my car before I could drive to school.

I only let it run for the minimum time it needed to, though. I couldn't waste any more money than necessary on gas. We had already spent so much on doctors and hospitals and ambulances. We couldn't afford to blow our money on gas for a stupid car.

I _would_ have walked, but it was so bloody cold outside. 

On the way I thought about my classes and counselors and teachers. I thought about my friends. No one came to visit me After. I didn't know if anyone would be there for me now, since the Incident had everyone in town talking about me.

I was the crazy kid who tried to kill himself at Addie Miller's end of semester party. I was the kid everyone made fun of. 

Now I'm the kid who eats lunch all alone. I'm the kid who replies in monotone if asked a question. For once in my life besides swinging, I'm glad for my shortness. It means people don't notice me as much in the hallway.

For once, I'm glad I'm not six feet tall. Then people would notice me for sure. Who needs more attention when everyone made fun of you to your face for a whole month?

They said I did it for attention.

But I did it to escape reality.

I think that's when I started talking back to the people in my head.  
xxx  
The man leaves. Harry sits back down on the swings. He must have gotten bored and left sometime ago, because none of the school bus drivers said anything to Harry about him, and he heard them pull up a good ten minutes ago.  
xxx  
I realize how insane I sound now that I'm looking back at what I've written. I'm tempted to throw this away and never see it again, but I can't bring myself to do that.

I've already told you I love you. I can't just throw that away now, can I?

No. That would be absurd. 

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if Addie and Michael and Nathan still talked to me. I can't bring myself to ever finish those fantasies in my head.

It hurts too much. I'd rather just be numb and continue on like this.  
xxx  
Harry's mom says goodbye and hurries off to her dentist appointment after school is over. She tells Harry to be home for dinner as she rushes to her car.

Harry doesn't respond.  
xxx  
The library is burning. I can see it from my bedroom window, the black smoke spiraling up toward the sky and spreading out like a warning flag.  
 _Fire! Fire!_ it says, the orange glow beneath it burning into my memory.

I live in that library. My family is in that library. All my friends are in that library. 

It's all going away.

I turn my head, looking back at my bed. Peeta is gone. The covers are straightened out. I can still hear Augustus Waters in the shower, though. So all isn't lost. 

But the rest of the house is quiet. Maybe Augustus stayed because his book is under my bed.

I never got the chance to return it.

And it seems I never will.  
xxx  
Harry remembers passing a burnt shell of a building on the way to school when he and his mother first moved into this town. She got a job at this primary school, and so Harry, his sister, and his mom had to move here.

He wonders if that's the library.

He hopes it is, so he knows what William is talking about. But then again, it hurts him to realize that this is all real. Maybe it's better if that's not the library.

Harry can't decide yet.  
xxx  
It's been awhile since I updated this. A couple of weeks, I assume. I lost track of time. Sorry, reader.

Augustus disappeared the morning after the fire. I still go to Miss Everworth every Tuesday. I still sit behind Addie in chemistry. I still eat Fruity Jewels. 

But I've stopped reading.

It feels like I've been punched in the stomach, and I can't manage to take another breath because of the pain.

Is this what heartbreak feels like?  
xxx  
Harry runs his finger along the jagged edges of the remnants of the pages. One page is so smeared that he can't read the writing, and some more behind it are torn out.

He wants nothing more than to have those pages. He wants nothing more than to read what William had written down, then thought better of and tore out.

He wants them more than anything else in the world, and that want is killing him. There's only a couple of pages he can actually read left, and those pages make him sad.

The setting sun urges him to continue. He has to finish before the light vanishes. He can't read this any place but here, where William intended him to be.  
xxx  
If you're reading this, I love you. I love you so much. Because if you've gotten this far, you must have cared. You must still care.

If you don't, please just play along. Act like you care for a couple more lines, okay? Don't question it. I need this. I need you to know this.

My name is Louis William Tomlinson, I am currently twenty-one years old. My eyes are blue, and my hair is brown. I can play the piano, and some people tell me I'm a decent singer. I don't know what god I believe in, or if there's one to believe in at all. 

But I do believe in the power of a story, and that a story has the power to impact the way you live. I hope you enjoyed my story. I really do. I hope it impacted you in some way, but it's okay if it didn't. 

I'm a boy from a small town writing in a journal. I hid this journal under the red swirly slide at my primary school in the fall, when the leaves on the trees matched the color that the faded slide used to be.

I know that they'll tear down the slide soon, and I know that my story will be exposed then. But I hope that someone doesn't just throw it away. I hope they don't just throw me away. 

I used to hide under that slide during recess, because the other kids didn't like me. I was funny during class, but they didn't want to play with me at recess.

That's okay. I don't hold it against them.

My name is Louis Tomlinson. I remember reading 846 books, and I have absorbed over 864 characters into my conscious. But this is where it ends. There are no more stories for me.

When these pages stop, my story stops. I stop. I hope you understand why I wrote this, and why I hope you've gotten this far in my story.

And that's why I love you, reader.  
I'll always love you. 

I hope you've come to love me, too.  
xxx  
"I have." Harry Styles whispers as he turns the last page in the leather bound book, throat clicking as he swallows. "I love you, Louis Tomlinson." 

_The End_

Harry shuts the book, clutching the worn leather to his chest as he sits on the swing. He stands to leave, glancing one more time over his shoulder at the new red slide. It was just put in this morning. 

He walks away from the school, heading back towards his house. Some people look at him strangely as he walks. Harry refuses to cry in public, but that doesn't stop his eyes from getting red and bleary and his body to shake. 

This boy killed himself. The boy in Harry's secret book killed himself. He can't fathom what pain this boy must have been in to actually commit suicide. It physically hurts Harry to think about it.

Someone stands in front of Harry's mailbox, hands in the pockets of his blue jeans. It's the man from the playground. His white t-shirt ripples in the summer breeze, and he stares at Harry. 

"Did you like the story?" He asks with a tilt of his head, eyes darting from Harry's face to the leather book in Harry's hands. 

Harry's throat is tight as he nods, trying to step around the boy to get to his house. "I'm not in the mood to talk."

The boy doesn't get the hint, but instead moves so he's blocking Harry's way again. "Did you fall in love with that character?" 

Harry frowns, blinking at the shorter lad. "Please move. You're creepy, and I want to go inside."

"Just answer the question. Please." The guy replies, his eyes desperate and pleading. 

Harry sighs, looking down at the book in his hands. He runs his fingers along the cover, thumbing through the yellowed pages. He toys with the dog-eared one. "Yeah, I did. The funny part is that this was an actual person. And they went through all this trouble just to find someone to understand, you know? They just wanted someone to feel their story, and they wanted to leave a mark somewhere." Harry snorts. "I bet you think I'm crazy."

"No. You're not crazy at all. And trust me, I know crazy." The boy mumbles. He lets Harry step around him and walk up the steps to the porch. Harry opens the door, looking back over his shoulder at the boy standing there. 

His brown hair is tousled and messy, blue eyes staring straight back into Harry's green ones. He stands there so calmly, almost like he belongs there. Then the boy turns to leave. 

_'He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. He's-'_

"Louis?" The boy stills and turns his head, staring at Harry. He flashes the curly haired lad a bright smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Yes, my love?"

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how I feel about this one. 
> 
> It's almost midnight and I'm running on three hours of sleep from the past two days. Hope you enjoyed this as much as I did.
> 
> Love you guys.  
> xx Pan  
> \---  
> UPADTE: Would you guys like an epilogue? I'll only make one if you want it. I mean, I'm all for just leaving the story like it is. You guys can create your own ending, kinda. 
> 
> Yes? No?  
> \---  
> UPDATE AGAIN: Harry is NOT a little kid. Uh. Sorry if that was confusing? Harry's mom works at the primary school, and Harry just came because he's sick and his mom didn't want him home alone.  
> He's in high school.   
> Sorry.. There's been some confusion.. He's not a little kid..   
> Yeah.


End file.
